


Only Listen to You

by darcymariaphoster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1800-1900s setting, AU, M/M, Mentions of Rape, end could easily be ignored, mild violence, not official johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:26:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3426125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darcymariaphoster/pseuds/darcymariaphoster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John didn't seem to care when he threw insults at him as he walked into his bedroom and refused to take his tonic. Instead, John had sat on the floor beside his desk and asked, "What are you working on that's more important than your health, Master Sherlock?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Listen to You

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a stupid idea that wouldn't leave me alone and it was ridiculously easy to write (EXCEPT THE END D:). I have no defined time period, though I'd guess between late 1800s to early 1900s (I avoided giving an actual year so I can dodge all the historical shizz I know I screwed up). Their ages are undefined, though they're heavily hinted at Sherlock being in his late teens and John being in his early 20s.
> 
> If you want to see this as Johnlock, read to the very end! I'm not sure if I'll write anymore than that because the end was giving me so much grief. (Also, I have other projects I'd like to wrap up.) But, if you don't want to see this as Johnlock, ignore the last bit. 
> 
> Tell me what you think, and if you think I should continue. It was sorta beta'd but I didn't give them the last little bit so I don't know how well that actually flowed. Opinions are important but please attempt to be kind. :) Thank-you for reading and have a wonderful day/night!

John Watson was Sherlock Holmes' personal servant, gifted to him on his sixteenth birthday. Not that he hadn't had other servants growing up. But until that point, none had stayed. They all treated him as a job and he'd made all their lives miserable for it. When John had arrived in the morning, the day after his birthday, he was prepared to do the same to him. Except that John didn't seem to care when he threw insults at him as he walked into his bedroom and refused to take his tonic. Instead, John had sat on the floor beside his desk and asked, "What are you working on that's more important than your health, Master Sherlock?" To that, Sherlock had no response for none had asked him any sort of question like that, only demanded things of him. And so he reluctantly let John give him his tonic.

 

When he came back later after helping outside, he had a tray of food in his hands. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I was informed you hadn't come down for lunch today. I asked the kitchen staff what you would eat and they admitted that they did not know. I requested a bit of my favourites and I hope that something will sit well with you." He set the tray on the desk, attempting to avoid papers and books.

 

Sherlock didn't bother looking up from the page he was studying. "I am not hungry, Watson. Leave me be." Silence was his answer. No shuffling of feet, no door closing behind him. For several minutes, he ignored this until his curiosity got the better of him and he glanced up at the blond in irritation, his cold blue eyes piercing. "I dismissed you. What are you still doing here?"

 

John shifted his weight, his boyish face holding nothing but kind determination. "Master Sherlock, I was informed before I arrived that you would be stubborn. When I inquired of your breakfast, it was said you'd had none today. You leave your food untouched more often than not. I see the stubbornness in you now and I fear I was a fool to laugh at the warnings." He took a deep breath and continued, "But I too can be stubborn and you'll have to endure my presence in this room until you eat."

 

At first, Sherlock didn't believe him. Many others had tried to coax him into eating with threats and bribes, though this was the queerest of them. "You threaten me with companionship?" he snorted and went back to his book.

 

Unfazed, John went to the window and threw open the sashes. Sudden sunlight streaming into the room caused Sherlock to start and glare at him. "Certainly," he replied calmly and went about tidying the room. "When was the last time someone cleaned in here? You'll catch your death with all the dust milling about."

 

"Stop touching my things," Sherlock demanded harshly, eyes following John's every movement. "I had an order to all that. How do you know you're not ruining something important?"

 

John looked at him coolly, draping yet another shirt from the floor over his arm. "I don't, sir. So you'd better eat something if you want me gone until dinner."

 

Sherlock's expression was that of horror and disgust. "And you'll come to do this all over again? What sort of motivation is that!?"

 

John laughed, a deep and hearty and _wonderful_ sound. "Only the best, Master Sherlock. For predictability is man's worst enemy." He gathered a few socks, mumbling about all the laundry to be done and "how on earth does he have anything clean to wear?"

 

Listening to his grumbling, Sherlock turned his eyes to the tray, laden with fruits and breads and goat cheese and something he wasn't sure if he'd ever seen before. "What is this?" he snapped, pointing to the plate.

 

Wandering over to see the cause of his distress, John smiled and said, "Dried meat. It's more for us servants; we don't normally get meats like you do. But I mean no offence by offering it to you, sir. I can see you are busy and the dried meat doesn't spoil as quickly as other meats."

 

"So I can leave it until I remember, is that right?" Sherlock hazarded, picking up a piece. John nodded, clearly nervous about his choice. "Interesting..." he murmured and tried a bite. It was tougher than he'd anticipated but a protein his body clearly needed. He glanced over the tray, reevaluating John's choices for food. It was all finger-food, things he could nibble on while he worked. "Thank-you," he offered, tongue feeling heavy as he attempted the words which he hadn't used since childhood.

 

Smiling brightly, John returned to picking things up off the floor while Sherlock munched and read. When his arms were heavy with clothing, John made his way over to the tray to check his progress and was surprised to find it empty. Silently, he took the tray, balancing everything carefully, and left the room. Sherlock watched the blond leave out of the corner of his eye and smiled to himself, pulling a piece of dried meat from his pocket to chew on as he continued to read. As promised, though it felt too soon, John returned with his dinner. He set himself to changing the bedsheets and readying Sherlock's tonic while the dark haired young man grudgingly ate.

 

The pattern continued for the next three weeks. John would wake him for his medication and breakfast, returning only for his other two meals, and _somehow_ always found something to busy himself with while Sherlock ate. Otherwise, John did not bother him much. It was dreadfully predictable and Sherlock found he didn't mind, only sometimes wishing John would stay to pester him for longer.

 

As the next month began, he woke before John came to rouse him and give him breakfast. He found himself pacing his room impatiently until he decided to go find himself food. His tonic could be given to him later. He pulled open his door, causing John, who was standing there wrestling with the tray, to almost drop everything in surprise. Swiftly, Sherlock reached out and balanced the tray for him. "Master Sherlock!" he exclaimed, eyes wide as he attempted to regain himself. "I am sorry for my tardiness. I hope you haven't been waiting long..."

 

Sherlock scoffed, turning back around and perching on the edge of his bed. "I've been awake for quite awhile. What do you mean by keeping me waiting, Watson?"

 

Flushing, John furrowed his eyebrows in concern. "My sincerest apologies, sir. I was caught by Miss Hooper and we were discussing plans for the day... It was meant to be a surprise, sir, but I suppose it can't hurt to ask..." He set the tray on the bed beside Sherlock and went about pouring his medication onto a spoon.

 

"I hate surprises," Sherlock snapped, stirring his hot cereal. "So you might as well tell me what you were planning."

 

John smiled gently as he passed the spoon to Sherlock who reluctantly put the contents in his mouth and promptly wrinkled his nose in disgust. "I was wondering if you'd like to go outside today, sir. It really is beautiful; not a cloud in sight and it promises to be pleasantly warm." He took back the spoon and pulled the curtains aside as if to show him.

 

"I don't particularly enjoy being out of doors, Watson," Sherlock muttered, starting on his food in hopes of drowning the awful flavour of the tonic. "I'd rather stay in here."

 

Pursing his lips, John nodded and set the spoon on the dresser as he went to the closet. "Perhaps another day," he mused, surprising Sherlock.

 

Hesitantly, he inquired, "You will not pursue this request?"

 

John glanced over his shoulder. "No, sir. I've pushed enough of your habits for the start. I may push more later but, for now, it's only spring. We have an entire year to get you out of doors." He smiled kindly and pulled a clean shirt and a pair of trousers out, offering them to Sherlock. "Today, however, I'd like you to at least get dressed."

 

Sherlock eyed the clothes warily before huffing out a sigh. "When you return for my tray, I will be properly dressed." John gave a short nod, setting the clothes on Sherlock's other side before making his leave. Sherlock didn't particularly want breakfast but he knew John would only pester him until he ate at least half of his then cold mush. So he made a face and shovelled in a few hurried bites before he could change his mind. When John returned, Sherlock was adjusting his sleeves so they were rolled up to his elbow. "Watson, will you open my window? It's stifling."

 

Obediently, John went to the window and opened it to let the cool spring breeze in. "Anything else, sir?" he asked politely, turning to the other.

 

"No, you're dismissed," Sherlock replied lazily as he studied his bookshelf. John silently gathered the tray and the spoon he'd left on the dresser and scurried from the room. Sherlock did not stay at the bookshelf long; instead, he found himself drawn to the window where he could see some of the workers in the gardens, trying to get as much done as possible before the day got hot. He leaned against the sill, watching them work and listening to them chatter pleasantly to one another in their Cockney accents. It was strangely mind-numbing.

 

Around lunchtime, he meandered down the stairs and to the kitchens. The head of the staff about dropped her spatula in surprise. "Master Sherlock," she exclaimed and turned to him politely.

 

"I'd like to make a request for my lunch," he told her carelessly, unfazed by her reaction. She nodded, paying him her full attention. "I would appreciate just some dried meat, fruit, and cheese. I'm not very hungry so only a small portion. Have Watson bring it to the library when it's ready." She hastily agreed and he made his leave.

 

After only a short while in the library, John stepped into the room quietly. "Decided to leave your dungeon for the day?" he teased lightly, setting the tray on the table beside a stack of books.

 

Sherlock glanced at him dryly and then continued scribbling something down in his notebook. "I decided that I needed to get a change of scenery. Is there a problem with this?"

 

"No, sir," John chirped brightly. "I'll let you to it, then. I've got a few things to attend to or I'd stay to bother you."

 

Sherlock frowned up at him. "What things, then?" He tried not to pout but he could tell his features were turned down in a mild version of one.

 

John smiled fondly at him. "I am unfortunately needed elsewhere in the house, sir. One of the cleaning staff called in sick today and they need the extra man. I'll return to fetch your empty dishes soon, sir. Hopefully Donovan will be well again by tomorrow and I can pester you as normal." Sherlock made a sound in the back of his throat and popped a grape into his mouth.

 

"You were content to bother me plenty this morning," Sherlock grumbled as John turned to exit the room. "I thought that the cleaning staff came in earlier?"

 

John glanced over his shoulder at him, smiling in an odd sort of way. "They do. They only just asked for my assistance when they realised they were beginning to fall behind. I do apologise, Master Sherlock."

 

The brunet did not answer him this time and so John quietly left him to study.

 

Donovan was not well enough to work for another two days, keeping John from Sherlock. In turn, the brunet became more difficult and went back to refusing his meals and wouldn't leave his room. When John was allowed to turn his full attentions to him again, he felt frustrated and annoyed. It was as if he were starting all over again. After three days of Sherlock being finicky and ignoring all but one meal, John had had enough.

 

It was lunchtime and Sherlock was curled on his bed in his nightclothes and a dressing gown. Angrily, John threw open the curtains and shoved the window open. "Master Sherlock, I've had just about enough of your antics!" he all but shouted, turning to the bed. "I know everyday tasks such as eating must seem very mundane for you but I tire of seeing your health deteriorate. One day, I'd like for you to not have to be bothered with that disgusting tonic. But the way you're going, I'll more than likely see your death first and I don't much like that thought."

 

Sherlock scowled at him. "I played your rules and I got bored of them. You're nothing special, Watson; nothing new. I tire of your false care of my health. You'd only be upset for loss of a cheque."

 

At this, John trembled twice from head to toe in anger. "False care? The hours I spend each day ensuring you eat is false? I could be doing other things for the house, sir, make no mistake. If I feared the loss of work, I would be wasting my time busying myself in the gardens or dusting the shelves of the library and spending only a small amount of time in here with you. I would think that making myself look versatile and useful in all fields would be good for my pay. Instead, I stay to ensure that you are eating sufficiently and do not stay in bed all day. I do not see how my concern is false, sir."

 

Sherlock glowered at him, sitting up abruptly. "But you are _employed_ to care for me. How am I to believe that you do not care only for your pay?"

 

John stared at him, his anger slowly fading into sadness. "Is it so uncommon for people to truly care about you that you would so easily doubt me?" he asked quietly, moving to the side of the bed. Sherlock flopped back down, rolled over to face him and huffed at him in answer. "Master Sherlock..." He reached over and pushed his unruly curls out of his face. "Let's get you washed and dressed for the day, yes?" He went to the closet and pulled a fresh outfit out. "You can study in here or we can go into the yard and those are your choices today."

 

Sherlock scowled darkly at him, tightening his dressing gown around his middle. "Why do I need to get dressed, then? I'll stay in my room."

 

John raised an eyebrow at him. "You haven't bathed in three days and you must feel horrible. You look sickly. We'll bathe you and then you can have a small lunch and we'll decide where you'll be for the rest of the evening. Does that sound acceptable?"

 

"If it's the only choice I have," Sherlock mumbled pliantly. He allowed John to run him a bath and was left to clean and dress himself. As he wandered back to his bedroom, John was waiting by his desk with his lunch. He let him feed him, unable to will himself to do it on his own. His depression was running him that day and he knew it, though he couldn't be bothered to attempt to fight it. When he was finished eating and John was cleaning up the space, he asked, "Why do you not eat?"

 

John looked at him in surprise. "I eat, sir. Either before or after I come to see you. Don't you worry about me, Master Sherlock."

 

"I wasn't worried," Sherlock scoffed defiantly, blushing slightly. "I was only curious." He paused as John muttered a quiet "of course, sir" and continued gathering the tray into his arms. "Perhaps," Sherlock started hesitantly, biting his lip around his words, "you could dine with me from now on, instead of on your own?"

 

John studied him a moment and sighed, "If it'll encourage you to eat, sir, I will." Sherlock nodded decisively. "I'll be back shortly. I think we'll go outside."

 

Sherlock looked absolutely offended. "I do not wish to leave my room! You said it was _my_ choice!"

 

"I did but that was before I realised the state you were in," John answered in his steadiest voice. "Get your shoes on and I will be back." Of course, he was unsurprised to find that Sherlock had not moved and did not have his shoes on. Silently, he pulled his shoes from the closet and went to Sherlock, sitting at his feet and wrestled his shoes on. Once they were tied, John stood again. "Now then. I will carry you if you give me no other choice but I think you'd look rather silly and I doubt you want the rest of the staff to see you thrown over my shoulder. So will you stand and walk?"

 

Reluctantly, Sherlock pushed his chair back and stood. He leaned most of his weight against John as they walked downstairs and out the front door. John led him to the huge oak in front of the house and helped him sit on the grass. Some of the gardeners paused to look over in surprise but seemed to realise their mistake and went quickly back to work. "Am I supposed to sit here and drown in my own boredom?" Sherlock snapped scathingly.

 

John wrung his hands in front of himself. "I had no chance to grab anything for you on our way out. What would you like me to get for you?" Sherlock rambled off three book titles and demanded a pen and John scrambled away to get the items. He came back huffing, a pen clutched in one hand as he balanced the books in his arms carefully. "Here you are, Master Sherlock..." he muttered, setting the things down beside him. He settled down on the other side of the books quietly.

 

"This is for you to read," Sherlock said simply, pushing a book toward the blond and opening one of the other two. John picked up the novel and studied it, flipping it to the first page. He stared at the words for far too long as Sherlock finally turned to him. "I thought you'd like it?"

 

John looked up at him and blushed deeply. "I can't read all of the words, sir..." Sherlock stared at him blankly. "I didn't finish much school, Master Sherlock. My father became ill shortly after my eighth birthday and I left my education to pursue work instead. I only know how to read some words by their sounds -- which is how I found these books..."

 

Sherlock gazed at him seriously a moment before moving his own books aside and settling closer to John. He snatched the novel wordlessly from the blond. Placing his finger just below the first word, he slowly began to read aloud, easily capturing John's full attention with his rich voice and animated tones.

 

When the sun began to set, Sherlock helped John gather their things and take them to his room. John did not argue when Sherlock went to his bed and stared blankly at the ceiling. The blond left him to attend to some of his other neglected chores before dinner. It did not escape his notice that the staff was muttering under their breaths about the fact that Sherlock had _actually_ gone outside for the first time in almost a year. And it was John's doing.

 

Before he could collect his and Sherlock's meals, Mr. Holmes caught him and demanded to speak to him. "I realise our busy schedules have kept us from discussing my son but I heard something from Lestrade today and I'd like to ask about it." John nodded seriously and tucked his hands behind his back. "You got Sherlock to go outside today, Watson?"

 

John blinked in surprise. "Yes, sir. We sat in the grass after lunch and he read aloud from one of his novels," he replied honestly, wondering if he'd done something wrong. Was Sherlock not allowed outside, as John had thought? Maybe his medication or illness prevented him from being in the sun?

 

Mr. Holmes nodded thoughtfully. "I see... How did you manage to convince him to leave his quarters to begin with?"

 

"I gave him no choice, Master Holmes," John answered, trying not to sound as smug as he was beginning to feel. "He was in a right state today and I did not like the idea of leaving him alone in the darkness of his room -- or his mind, for that matter. I apologise if I did something wrong..."

 

Mr. Holmes barked out a startled laugh. "Wrong? Quite the contrary. I'm rather impressed with your work. Get Sherlock to step out of the house, well!" He snorted and shook his head. "Good on you, Watson." Still shaking his head, he walked away and left John standing dumbfounded by the kitchen.

 

Weeks turned to months and John continued to prove that he cared for Sherlock as a person and not simply as a job. On two separate occasions, John did not leave Sherlock's room even to fetch their lunches because the young man threw such a fit that it took him several hours to calm him down and keep him that way. They would spend the majority of their time together chatting and Sherlock _glorified_ John when he talked about him to his family.

 

Mr. Holmes, upon speaking with both Sherlock and his doctor, relieved John of some of his other duties so he could focus mainly on the youngest Holmes. They watched as the blond coaxed him outside on sunny days and set him in the sitting room on rainy ones; the brunet was beginning to come back to life again as he paced the rooms and described fantastic stories with great enthusiasm to his caretaker. Slowly, Sherlock found himself relying heavily on the man for his support, care, and friendship. And his family began to notice how he tended to ignore anyone who _wasn't_ John.

 

This fact became problematic when the blond quite suddenly got sick with a terrible fever and was banished to his quarters to recover. Molly Hooper, one of the maids, was told to tend to Sherlock in the meantime. Molly, for her part, made a valiant effort but Sherlock was worse than a toddler. Upon hearing his normal helper was not going to attend to him, he refused to take his medication nor rise from his bed. He sent Molly away in tears after several attempts.

 

"Master Sherlock," John huffed, coming to his room after speaking with the distraught young woman who tailed him timidly. Said young man started in surprise, having not anticipated his caretaker to be there, and stared at him with wide eyes over his shoulder. "Do not cause Miss Hooper trouble while I am away. She has your best interest in mind, as I have all this time. Do as you're asked or I will not return."

 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose disdainfully, regarding him carefully as he rolled over. His cheeks were flushed with fever but his body was shaking with chills. He looked weaker than Sherlock was used to and he found he didn’t like it. "It's not your decision as to whether or not you return to care for me. My father is in charge and if I demand you stay, he'll ensure it."

 

This did not really give the brunet the reaction he was looking for. John's face pinched up in frustration and he leaned against the doorframe. "I can quit. I will not care for a dead man," he declared finally, sounding short of breath. "I'm sorry I can't be here, Master Sherlock, but your father is rightly worried about your health. Listen to Miss Hooper and I will return upon my recovery. If she informs me that you gave her any trouble, you'll regret it. Do you hear me?"

 

By way of answer, Sherlock reached over and grabbed the bottle of tonic from his bedside table, extending it to Molly who looked too stunned and concerned to respond. "Well!?" he thundered and Molly squeaked as she hurried to his bedside. John quietly stumbled to back to his chambers.

 

But John did not make a speedy recovery. In fact, he was missing for four days (in which Sherlock refused to leave his room except to relieve himself, nor get dressed, and pointedly reminded Molly on several occasions that he was only eating because John had told him to and not because she encouraged him) before the young Holmes was summoned for dinner. Normally, his parents didn't push him to leave his room for meals -- not even in recent days. That fourth night, however, food was not forthcoming via servants. Instead, he understood the not-so-subtle hint that he was required in the dining room. So he meandered down the stairs and took his place at the table. The occupants were silent as their food was served and they began to eat. After a while, his brother, Mycroft, finally had enough and asked lightly, "So you've decided to join us tonight? What's the occasion?"

 

Sherlock sniffed and stirred his soup distastefully. "No food arrived in my room so I took the hint." He paused and, when his father did not make to give him his reason, he cautiously asked, "How is John? I have not received word of his health."

 

His father stared up at him from the head of the table and grumbled, "Not well. He may as well be on his death bed. I begin looking to replace him tomorrow."

 

Sherlock dropped his spoon into his dish, the clatter loud in the quiet room. His mother flinched visibly. "You can’t! He's _my_ servant and I will not listen to anyone else. You've hardly given him a chance to heal!"

 

"You've done well under Hooper's care while he's been away," his mother reminded him softly, attempting to regain some peace.

 

"Because it was requested of me by John," Sherlock scoffed impatiently, too stubborn to be proven wrong. He'd always been difficult, picky in who he placed his trust and wellbeing. This was nothing new to his parents. What made this case strange was that John had been attending to their son for over a year now and he had neither quit nor had Sherlock requested him to be replaced. He was the only servant to care for their son for this long. And he'd been doing _well_.

 

His father made a rude sound under his breath and said, "I'll not be paying a dead man for services he has been unable to render."

 

"Three more days," Sherlock bargained, feeling desperate. "If he is not well enough to return to his duties by then, I will not argue his replacement." There was a long and heavy silence where his mother and brother looked between them expectantly. Finally, with a long suffering sigh, his father agreed. Dinner, after that, was a quiet affair.

 

Sherlock snuck into John's chambers that night, quietly crossing the house and avoiding all the squeaky floorboards as he headed to the servants' quarters, and knelt by his bed. "John," he whispered, reaching over to grip his hand tightly. "You must wake and return to your full health quickly. Father was talking of replacing you if you're not well within three days." He hesitated, watching the blond's subtle twitching and general unrest. He looked horrid and the knowledge of his state tugged painfully at his heart. "I do not want anyone else to pretend they care, tell me how useless and difficult I am. You're so much better than everyone else and I _need_ you. Please, John, please get well..." He rested his head against John's overly warm hand and took a shuddering breath in a weak attempt to steady himself. After several minutes passed with no response, he reluctantly returned to his own room for a restless night.

 

The following evening, well before he was due for his medication, Molly burst into his room, breathless and flushed. He glanced at her in annoyance and reminded her of the time impatiently. "Yes, sir, begging your pardon," she replied all too cheerfully. "I know it is too early to bother you but I thought you would be appreciative to know that John's fever has broken and he was awake for a few minutes just now." She grinned brightly at him.

 

A warm sensation slid its silky tendrils through his body from his toes to his ears and he offered her a small smile in return. "Yes, that is good news. Thank you, Miss Hooper..."  Absolutely beaming, she apologised again for disturbing him and quietly made her leave. Relieved, Sherlock slipped from his perch at his desk, went to his closet and pulled a case from the back. Cautiously, he set it on his bed and opened it. Then he did something he hadn't done in years: he picked up his violin and began to play.

 

It took another three days for John to recover enough to attend to Sherlock again. During these days, Sherlock alternately read and played music from memory. As far back as she could remember, Molly could not recall a time that he had been so kind and obedient -- not since John had arrived, of course. She was almost reluctant to leave him.

 

As John ascended the stairs to Sherlock's room on his first day back, he immediately was aware of the sound of music being played. Curious, he pushed open the door and saw Sherlock standing by the window, a violin tucked under his chin and a gentle melody flowing from the strings. "I did not know that you played, sir..." he said softly as he set the breakfast tray on the desk and Sherlock spun, setting the instrument on the bed before flinging himself into John's arms. "Master Sherlock!" he cried in surprise, blushing furiously even as his arms wrapped around him briefly.

 

"I missed you," Sherlock mumbled petulantly. "Molly was too nice." He slumped back, letting his arms fall to his sides.

 

John appraised him with a critical eye, placing his hands on his hips in an attempt to seem more stern once more. "Master Sherlock, you're not even dressed. When was the last time you bathed? Have you been outside since I left?"

 

"I bathed the day before yesterday," Sherlock sniffed indignantly. "And I've gotten plenty of sunshine through my window." John didn't look thrilled as he went to Sherlock's closet and picked an outfit. "I'm glad to see you well, John..."

 

The blond glanced at him over his shoulder, surprised by the use of his first name. "It's good to be back, sir," he replied quietly.

 

The next year passed too quickly. Sherlock never let John have an easy or relaxing day, choosing instead to test his resilience. He stopped fussing over breakfast, so long as John stayed to eat with him. But lunch was trickier because John often was in the middle of another task -- remaking Sherlock's bed, laundry, polishing Sherlock's good dress shoes -- and would attempt to finish that before eating. Sherlock would refuse to eat unless John stopped what he was doing and ate with him. Dinner became an interesting event after a few months. John started demanding that Sherlock dine with his family and not in his room. To get him to do so took a lot of threats and several compromises. But, finally, John succeeded.

 

Sherlock spent many hours playing his violin and, when he put it down for awhile, reading to John. As winter approached their doorstep, getting Sherlock outside became close to impossible as he whined about the cold and complained about the snow and cursed the lack of sunshine.  But John stayed steadfast and practically dragged Sherlock out the front door at least twice a week. On the days they were inside, they were found in the library or in the sitting room or Sherlock's room by default. Things were well; not as good as they could be -- Sherlock still had his dark days -- but well nonetheless.

  
  


However, one night, deep in winter, the family and some of the staff were awakened by a great clamour. At first, Sherlock wasn't sure if he could be bothered to go see as he still felt too drowsy. But the sound of his caretaker's last name being shouted from his father's lips made him scramble down the stairs anxiously. He skidded into the sitting room where the commotion was taking place and felt his heart stutter as his eyes soaked in the scene before him. Miss Hooper was in the far corner, sobbing silently, and looking to be in a disastrous state. Anderson and John were facing off in the centre of the room, though John had turned his head obediently to face Mr. Holmes. His face was bloody and his hair a mess, eyes darkened dangerously, and still in a better state than Anderson by far. "What is going on?" Sherlock's father demanded, sounding more surprised than angry. Both Molly and Anderson tried to give an explanation at once, their voices overlapping and their words becoming messy. His mother and brother arrived, hanging behind him. "Enough!" his father thundered and the room fell silent. "Watson, give it a try, since you were the only one not in a rush to accuse anyone else."

 

Slowly, John turned to face Mr. Holmes properly, obviously trying to calm himself. "I apologise for waking you and your family, sir. It's only that, when I was headed for the kitchen for a cup of tea to soothe my nerves -- nightmares, you see, sir -- I heard something quite terrible in here and saw Anderson forcing himself upon Miss Molly. I wasn't able to walk away without attempting to help her, sir."

 

The rage on his father's face was not one Sherlock saw often. As he turned to Anderson, the weasel screeched, "I did no such thing! She was begging for it, the whore!"

 

John lunged across the small tea table angrily. "I'll not hear you insult Miss Molly that way, you filth!"

 

Mr. Holmes was at John's back in an instant, pulling him away. "Violet, would you kindly escort Hooper to her rooms and see to it that she is properly cared for?" he grumbled, a strained calmness to his voice. Mrs. Holmes beckoned Molly to her and the young woman fled to her, letting her guide her from the room. Turning his full attention to the two men still glowering at each other, he sternly demanded, "Get out of my house, Anderson. I have a wife and other staff members to consider and I will not have the likes of you in my home!" As Anderson opened his mouth to protest, his father's voice rose to _almost_ yelling. "Out!"

 

With a disgusted glare at John, the lanky man slumped from the room. Mr. Holmes waited for the click of the front door shutting before he let John go. He stumbled forward, running a hand down his face. His hand came away smeared with blood from his lip and nose. His father reached a hand out to steady him and the blond mumbled his thanks. "I didn't mean for it to go so far, sir," he offered weakly, as though the rest of his strength had left him with Anderson's leave. "He made it clear that Miss Hooper had not been his first advance and I became blind with rage..." He hesitated here, as if considering adding something but unsure if he should.

 

Sherlock watched his father take John's arm and guide him toward the kitchen, pausing in the doorway to tell him and Mycroft to go back to bed and dismiss the small crowd of staff that had arrived to see what was happening. As he and John vanished into the kitchen, the Holmes brothers glanced at each other before sneaking to the kitchen door. They pushed it open slightly and peered inside, listening intently.

 

"I owe you just that much more, Watson," Mr. Holmes murmured, wiping down John's face with a damp cloth.

 

John held very still, not tense but not quite relaxed. "No, sir, you owe me nothing," he said calmly, eyes on the ground. "This is my family and I would do what I can to keep them safe."

 

Mr. Holmes had nothing to say to that and, when he finished cleaning John up, simply got a glass down from the cupboard along with his bottle of scotch, and gave the blond a healthy dose. "You're the best man I've ever hired and I am very much grateful for you, Watson," he finally declared and both his sons were surprised by the words and the softness his voice had taken on.

 

"Strangely," John muttered absently into the glass that he was staring into, "I think that this is my favourite of all the households I've ever worked for..." He downed the alcohol as Sherlock and Mycroft silently headed for their rooms.

 

When John came to care for him the following morning, Sherlock did his best to pretend that he did _not_ have a million questions for him. John didn't ask how he'd slept, as he'd gotten into the habit of doing most mornings. Instead, he was silent as he handed Sherlock his breakfast and sat on the floor with his own after Sherlock had had his tonic. After a few minutes of eating and Sherlock studying John's face, he finally asked, "Are you all right, John?"

 

The blond looked up at him as if he'd been pulled from a very interesting book and hadn't been expecting to hear his name. "Yes, sir, I'm fine. Thank-you..."

 

But that wasn't the answer Sherlock was looking for. Deciding to press his luck, he tried, "How did you sleep last night?"

 

This gave John pause. He set his spoon into his dish and slowly looked up at him. "Not well, sir. And you?"

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "After all that chaos Anderson caused, I did not fall back to sleep. I read until the sun came up." John opened his mouth to protest but Sherlock didn't give him the chance, instead barrelling on, "What are your nightmares about, John?"

 

John snapped his jaw shut in an almost comical way. "I do not wish to discuss them, Master Sherlock..." And then, as if it were an afterthought, “Please.”

 

“Why won’t you talk about _you_?” Sherlock growled, annoyed. In the past year and a half, he can’t recall a time when John had said more than that little bit about his father falling ill. He seemed to cleverly be able to turn a conversation around so that instead of focusing on himself, it was focused on whoever he was talking to. At that moment, the fact was severely irritating Sherlock.

 

Slowly, John studied his master with a furrowed brow. He felt defensive but those _eyes_ that take him apart and ground him were demanding he indulge and trust. And, in a way, he knew he should. Because Sherlock had handed him his trust. It was the least he could do for him, to give a little in return. With a bit more consideration, John sighed and set his breakfast aside, crossing his legs and looking up at Sherlock with a forced focus. “I don’t much see a point in talking about me, sir. I’m not very interesting and I’m not very important. I’m only help.”

 

Sherlock snorted impatiently and climbed off the bed, sitting on the floor in front of John. He crossed his legs and their knees pressed together almost uncomfortably. “You’re very interesting. At least to me. I don’t quite understand it but I want to know as much about you as I can absorb. I know your father was taken ill, and that’s why you went to work. Judging by your habits and the fact that you’re still working, I’d say that he passed. As for your mother, since there is little to go off of, I’m fairly sure that she passed shortly after. You don’t talk to your sister but the majority of your cheques disappear to somewhere so you must still be caring for her. Why you don’t talk is probably because you two have a disagreement about something. I would venture to say your parents, as you both had strong bonds to one or the other. But why you won’t talk about any of it is frustrating.”

 

John felt temporarily stunned, blinking blankly at the other man sitting in front of him. He had heard Sherlock whisper his deductions under his breath about some of the other staff or guests who popped in on occasion. He had always flinched a bit, feeling sorry the victim under scrutiny. Yet had also found it so fascinating and brilliant. He was unsure how he felt about being the one being picked apart like that, knowing that Sherlock could see everything as if he had it written down over his person for him to read. Hesitantly, John found himself talking, his lips moving as if on their own and his brain struggling to keep up. “My father fought his illness for two years before it took him. My mother didn’t die, she ran away. She tried to stay for another three years but she told me that I reminded her too much of our dad. My sister blames me for her disappearance. But, until she marries, I send her money to survive so she can live on her own." He pinched his lips together as an echo of pain washed over him. He wasn't sure he was ready to indulge but he'd started and, suddenly, he couldn't stop. "I worked for six other families before yours. One of them, I had to quit. The mother turned a blind eye while the older brother commanded the family and nearly killed his youngest sister. He didn't hesitate to use force with me and when he threatened my life after I screamed at his mother to _do something_ , save that little girl, I left.

 

"I have nightmares of the things I witnessed, of things I'm afraid happened," John murmured, practically moaning with emotional agony he refused to let go of. "Some nights, I wish I'd taken the girl with me when I fled... It wouldn't have done any good, I know. But... it... It _haunts_ me. That I couldn't do anything more for her... I couldn't keep a family after that... Until yours." He looked up and met those bleak and blazing eyes. "And I stay for you. Maybe, in a way, you reminded me of that little girl. But now? Now it's so much more... I value your friendship and I delight in the way your eyes light up when you see me. There's so much to you, Master Sherlock; why would I waste my time and energy talking about me when I could spend it learning everything about you?"

 

Sherlock stared long and hard at him, until John squirmed under the scrutiny. Then, without really thinking about it, he leaned forward and brushed their lips together. Startled, John stayed frozen as the younger man muttered against his mouth, “Strange, I’ve wondered the same of you…”

 

John jerked back reflexively and stared at him with wide eyes. “M-Master Sherlock…” he muttered, body and mind unsure whether he wanted to move closer or away. Instead, besides a little twitching in his shoulder and fingers, he found himself unable to move.

 

“I apologise…” Sherlock murmured, reading him easily and standing. “I obviously misinterpreted you and crossed a line.” After a beat, just as John was getting his nerves together again, he continued, “I don’t feel very hungry anymore. You can take my dishes away. I’ll see you for lunch.” He turned his back, signalling the end of any more conversation.

  
Obediently, John shakily stood and collected all the dishes, setting them on the tray and picking it up. “Sir, I…” he began, swallowing thickly. “I don’t think I minded as much as you may think…” Swiftly, he left the room and Sherlock spun on his heel, staring out the open door in surprise.


End file.
